The reinforcement force deployed to the Iwa battlefield that afternoon, and the Land of Grass felt different this time around.
Hyuga Seiran's mere arrival turned heads. Shinobi stopped mid-conversation, their eyes wide with shock and barely concealed awe. Whispers rippled through the camp like wind through grass.
"That's the one who defeated Rasa? He looks so young..."
"First dual-Kekkei Genkai user in Hyuga history. They're calling it Male Magnet Release."
"Yeah, but..." One shinobi's voice dropped. Someone remembered Elder Chiyo's fate. A visible shiver ran through the group.
"Seiran! Late again?"
Rin Uchiha stood with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
"I arrive precisely when I intend to." Seiran rolled his eyes at her.
The truth was less poetic. He'd been grinding experience points—Level 4 Electromagnetic Manipulation still had room to grow, and wartime shadow clones yielded slow returns. But every bit counted. He'd learned long ago that efficiency and frugality went hand in hand.
His gaze swept the camp and caught on a familiar face: Shibi Aburame, deep in conversation with Minato Namikaze. Team 3's first reunion since their separation.
"Your Seventh Class students are impressive," Shibi was saying. "Kakashi especially—he's nearly jonin rank, isn't he?"
"You're being generous," Minato laughed. "But your Third Class was the real powerhouse."
Shibi's eyes suddenly brightened. "Especially Seiran! His technique—Armstrong: Electromagnetic Railgun—it's incredibly powerful. And the name!"
Seiran froze.
Did I really name it that?
Shibi's expression shifted to something strange and embarrassed.
"The Armstrong..." Minato repeated cheerfully. "I didn't expect Seiran's taste in jutsu names to be so creative. Almost rivals my Magnetic Light Wheel Wind Thunder Arrow Zero."
Several nearby shinobi exchanged glances, their lips twitching.
Shibi's ears flushed red. His feet scuffed at the ground. Social anxiety was already his weakness—now an audience had materialized to watch him squirm.
Behind them, Seiran swallowed hard.
Is this really happening right now?
He silently retreated, praying Shibi wouldn't spot him. This qualified as social death by proxy.
"Seiran, it's been a while!" Rin called out, a strange glint in her eye.
"What's been a while?"
"Your name."
His scalp tingled. He changed the subject fast. "Did anything happen when you visited the clan?"
Rin hesitated. "Actually, yes. But Elder Setsuna told me not to tell you."
Seiran's pulse quickened. "What is it?"
Rin's cheeks flushed slightly. She looked away. "He told me to try getting closer to you."
Elder Setsuna.
That hawkish survivor from Madara's era. The old man was grooming an Uchiha Hokage, apparently. And if he knew anything about opening a Mangekyō Sharingan...
Is he trying to use me as some kind of sacrifice?
"If he didn't want you telling me, why did you?"
"Why should I listen to him?" Rin rolled her eyes in that familiar way—cold and sharp.
Seiran decided silence was the safer option.
The crowd shifted. Minato spotted him and waved. "Seiran! Come over here!"
Seiran glanced at Shibi's resentful expression and nearly dug his toes into the earth in mortification.
What happened to the reunion I imagined?
---
The Konoha camp in the Land of Grass bustled with activity. Shinobi poured out to greet the reinforcements.
Seiran spotted the Seventh Class first—Obito waving frantically at the front.
"Minato-sensei! Over here!"
Kakashi stood slightly back, offset from the group. Even as Obito shouted with excitement, Kakashi remained apart, as if existing in a different world. But his gaze was fixed on Seiran. Not a glance—a constant, deliberate stare.
Their eyes met.
Seiran sighed inwardly. So much has changed because of me.
In another timeline, Kakashi would have crushed every genius record in Konoha after Hatake Sakumo's death. Then Obito would've dragged him back into the light. But here? Seiran had defeated him publicly. The rumors that followed were... colorful.
He didn't know which direction Kakashi had bent toward now. One form of darkness for another, perhaps.
---
Later, in Seiran's tent, a knock came at the door. Kakashi stood in the frame, his expression utterly blank.
"You don't seem surprised," Kakashi said quietly.
"Guessed you'd come. Sit."
Kakashi remained standing. "The rumors about us have gotten... creative. You haven't bothered denying them."
The absurdity ranged from mild to delusional. Kakashi kneeling in public? The White Fang's son just a vain name? Kakashi crying, with a hundred things to discuss with Seiran?
"Self-amusing trash from Root operatives," Kakashi said flatly. "I won't dignify it by shouting denials in the streets. That's not why I'm here."
His eyes hardened. When he spoke again, his voice was different—younger, somehow. Vulnerable beneath the ice.
"You said my father's will was important. That he died interpreting it." Kakashi stepped closer. "What is it? His will—what is it really?"
Seiran saw it then: the weight Kakashi carried. Not the prideful burden of a genius, but something deeper. The fracture lines in his carefully constructed mask.
"You've been thinking about this the whole time?"
Seiran smiled slightly.
---